The Honey Trap

‘Not got the legs for it, love. The tits, maybe,’ he said with a grin. ‘Just remember, Blackthorne: relax, have fun and give it all you’ve got. You’ve all the makings of a great reporter. I know you won’t let me down.’

But the editor’s words couldn’t quite calm the sickening feeling in her stomach as she left his office.

Chapter 2 (#ucffe615e-83a6-56bd-b0fd-a7b96be15c9d)

Angel examined the man at the hotel bar carefully, mentally comparing him with the blurry photo of the shy young director at the premiere of his first film. Yes, it was certainly Wilchester, but eight years had made a big difference in his appearance. The man in front of her was athletic, tall and broad. His skin was tanned nut brown from foreign travel, chin flecked with designer stubble and he was soberly dressed in a navy-blue suit with a white cotton shirt open to the neck. The curling chestnut hair was just a little too long, its owner carelessly pushing back a stray tendril that was repeatedly falling into one eye.

She drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly through puckered lips, psyching herself up. This was something she hadn’t prepared for. She’d expected someone good-looking, yes, but this man wasn’t just handsome, he was hot: seriously hot, like a heavily Photoshopped model out of an upmarket menswear catalogue. Or that Diet Coke Break guy from the old ads. What a waste to have him behind the cameras instead of in front!

Suddenly aware of her own appearance, Angel reached up and smoothed the thick auburn hair tortured into what she hoped was a sophisticated up-do, pushing an escaping hairpin back into place behind one ear. It was pretty plain that if Sebastian Wilchester was bored of his superstar wife, he could probably have his pick of the gorgeous starlets he worked with every day. What could the skinny little newspaper intern in the too-obvious LBD have to offer that he couldn’t get anywhere else?

Well, nothing to lose except her pride…

Right, how did they do this sort of thing in the movies? ‘Buy a girl a drink, cowboy?’ Oh yes, very saloon-bar hooker. She couldn’t remember any of what Steve had told her in the briefing, except an echo, constant and repetitive, tapping out its own rat-a-tat rhythm in her brain: whatever it takes. A reporter gets her story, whatever it takes.

She’d just have to wing it. Hopefully something would come to her as she went along.

She glanced longingly at the door. It still wasn’t too late to make a bolt for it before he noticed her…

No, not an option. Steve had said there could be a staff job on the horizon for her if she got this right. After years working in dreary admin, dreaming of breaking into journalism, she couldn’t afford to throw the opportunity away.

Gathering her nerve from somewhere around her ankles, she rose and tottered over to the bar on the three-inch killer heels she’d bought for the occasion, slightly swaying her hips in what she hoped was a sexy wiggle rather than a duck waddle. It felt like all eyes were on her, and she could feel her skin prickling against the taut, slinky fabric of the dress as she made her way to Wilchester.

Signalling to the liveried bartender, Angel dumped her black sequinned handbag on the bar and slid up into the empty stool next to her target.

‘Double gin and slim, please. On the rocks.’ That sounded pretty sophisticated, didn’t it? The sort of thing a Bacall-esque femme fatale might drink. Angel cast a sly glance sideways, wondering if Wilchester had noticed.

He seemed to have abandoned watching sport on the big plasma screen in favour of staring morosely into his Scotch. God only knew what he saw to fascinate in the amber liquid: his own reflection, perhaps? It would be hard not to stare with a face like that. She tried not to let her eyes wander over the stubbled lines of his perfect jaw, the firm-sinewed skin of his neck showing through the open collar of his shirt.

Wilchester wasn’t paying any attention to her but someone at the bar was more alert to her charms, she noticed with a stab of annoyance. A ruddy-cheeked young suit with a noticeable absence of chin was swaggering over to her, a smug air of certain conquest illuminating his features. Angel cursed under her breath as he oiled up to her and leant on the bar by her elbow, reeking of self-assurance.

The barman had returned with a gin on ice and a miniature bottle of Schweppes, which he placed in front of her. ‘Your gin and tonic, Madam.’

‘Let me get that.’ City Boy – probably a Giles or a Dom, if she had to guess – had fixed her with a one-sided smile he clearly thought was dripping with irresistible charm. ‘A beautiful woman should never have to buy her own drinks.’

Angel grimaced, trying to settle her churning stomach. Seriously, that was the line he was going with?

He waved a fifty-pound note in the air in front of the barman. ‘No change, mate, sorry.’ Angel could practically feel her lady parts recoiling in horror.

‘That’s very kind of you but I, er, I’m waiting to meet my date,’ she said, thinking on her feet. ‘He’s due here any minute.’

City Boy looked around the nearly empty bar with an air of exaggerated showmanship. ‘Well, he’s not here now,’ he purred. ‘And here’s a man on £140k a year offering to buy you a drink. Come on, darling. You know which side your bread’s buttered, eh?’

She curled her lip and gave the hand that had found its way to her knee a rough push. ‘Look, mate, I said I’m not interested, okay? Now piss off, can you?’

‘Don’t come over all coy with me, darling. No one in a dress like that can say they’re not interested.’

‘Excuse me,’ said a smooth, brushed-velvet voice at her side. Sebastian Wilchester had turned to watch the scene before him with wry amusement. ‘Are you, er, Claire’s friend? I think I might be your blind date. I was supposed to meet a girl here at eight.’

‘Yes!’ she almost barked, seizing on the lifeline Wilchester had thrown her. ‘Yes, she told me to meet you here. I guess I should’ve asked to see a photo but, well, I’m an idiot. So lovely to finally meet you. Our friend – er, Claire – she’s told me all about you. Obviously.’

City Boy was edging away now, his gaze lingering on Wilchester’s six-two frame and the broad breadth of his shoulders. ‘Sorry, pal, my mistake. Didn’t realise the lady was meeting someone. I’ll leave you to your drinks.’ Angel smirked as he turned tail and sloped back to his table.

‘Here, let me get your drink. Least I can do after your ordeal.’ Wilchester turned to the barman. ‘Put it on my account, Brad.’

Angel noticed him examining her with guarded but obvious interest while he spoke, his glittering eyes skimming over her body. She didn’t know whether the sensation she was feeling in her belly was surprise or elation. He couldn’t actually be attracted to her, could he, this professional connoisseur of beauty?

‘It feels like I should be getting you one after that,’ she said with a laugh. ‘But thanks.’ She topped up her gin with a small amount of tonic, glad to have something to occupy her faintly trembling hands. The ice cubes clinked against the glass as she took a sip, the liquid’s zesty coolness creating a pleasant tingle over her lips and tongue. She hoped the refreshing drink would cool her down and tackle the blush rising fast to her cheeks, while the alcohol took the edge off her nerves.

‘And thanks for saving me,’ she said, looking up at Wilchester from over the rim of her glass. ‘That guy didn’t look like he was going to be put off easily.’

‘Oh, there’s a chancer like him in every bar, testing the gag reflex of anyone in a skirt. They usually give up after a few knock-backs.’ He flashed her a smile. ‘Anyway, glad I could help.’

She felt a shudder run through her, watching the smile light up his face like a fruit machine about to pay out. An attractive dimple appeared in the hollow of one cheek and his sparkling tawny eyes crinkled warmly. For some reason, Angel found herself looking down at her shoes, fighting against the ever-deepening blush.

Things were going well, though. At least she seemed to have got him talking. With a valiant effort, she forced herself to remember her brief before his attention drifted off somewhere else.

Tits and teeth. That was it, wasn’t it? Looking up, she beamed at him and leant forward a little, giving him a premium view of everything her dress was failing to conceal. She saw his gaze dart over the cleft and swell of her partially exposed breasts, then quickly away again.

‘Who do I owe my rescue to, then? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Sebastian. Well, just Seb usually. How about you?’

‘Angel.’ She grinned as he cocked one eyebrow. ‘Yes, really. I know, ridiculous isn’t it? My parents were just about the last of the flower children. I thought about changing it once when I was a teenager but, I don’t know, Angel kind of grows on you after a while…’

Was she waffling? It felt like she was waffling. She stopped, an awkward laugh escaping from her. Smooth, Angel, very smooth…

His eyes scanned her face, dwelling on the tilted nose surrounded by a cluster of pinhead freckles, the large green eyes just a little too far apart, the flushed cheeks now almost bubblegum pink. His approving gaze lingered on each feature, drinking her in until she dipped her chin in embarrassment. Angel swallowed hard. Maybe Steve had made the right choice for this gig after all.

‘Go on.’ He seemed entertained by her discomfort.

‘Um, that’s all there is to it really. Not much of a story.’ She managed a weak smile, twisting an escaping lock of hair around her little finger.

Her gaze flickered to the plasma screen, clutching for a topic of conversation that might get him talking before she bored him to tears with her life story. ‘How’s your team doing? I saw you watching the game.’

‘Not really watching so much as staring aimlessly.’ He laughed, taking another sip of Scotch. The glass was almost empty now. ‘Just got back from a business trip, so I’m a bit spaced out. Jet lag, you know? Sorry. I’m not very good company this evening.’

Okay, strike two. Angel took another mouthful of her drink, the alcoholic tang of the gin blunted by the fast-melting ice. A pleasant fuzz had started to fill her brain and she relaxed a little into the role of seductress extraordinaire.

Leg man, was it? Right. Time to bring out the big guns.

She shifted a little on her stool to face him and crossed her legs languorously, showing off their full, silken length as she did so and just barely brushing his shin with the tip of a leopard-print stiletto. She saw him give a slight jerk as he felt her touch.

Ha! It was working! She must be better at this seduction business than she thought…

‘Well, I’m enjoying your company all the same,’ she heard herself say in a provocative purr, looking at him from under lowered lashes.

She leant towards him, put out her hand and rested her fingertips on his wrist with a light touch, a thrill slamming through her when she felt the throb of his quickened pulse and the warmth of flesh on flesh. At least there was no band of gold on the third finger to provoke any pangs of conscience. Was he old-fashioned, she wondered, or did he just prefer not to advertise the fact he was married?